


Victor Nikiforov's Book Club

by Carnivalgirl24



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Ableism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Established Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Fluff and Angst, Injury Recovery, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov-centric, Light Angst, Literary references galore, M/M, POV Victor Nikiforov, Post-Canon, Supportive Katsuki Yuuri, Victor Nikiforov-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 20:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14776964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carnivalgirl24/pseuds/Carnivalgirl24
Summary: Victor has an injury that won't heal, and life as he knows it is changing beyond return. At a loss for what to do with the long days ahead, he rediscovers another love he's neglected for twenty years, the love of books. Yuuri, always his biggest fan, encourages him to share his inspiration with the world, and Victor Nikiforov's Book Club is born.





	Victor Nikiforov's Book Club

Victor awoke to two surprises. The first was that the sun was already up; for the first time in a while he hadn’t woken up in the night. The second was that the space next to him was empty. Instantly deprived, he got out of bed and paced to the kitchen as fast as he physically could, which was not fast enough, especially not on a day like today.

There he found Yuuri, cosy in his yukata and a thick scarf, crouching to fill Makkachin’s bowl with food. Rain was pattering unevenly against the windows, but the flat was warm and dry, steam was rising from the kettle and there were eggs for breakfast waiting on the counter.

 _I feel so safe_ , Victor thought.

‘Good morning, sleeping beauty,’ Yuuri said, springing up at the sight of him. ‘Tea?’

He picked up a mug of green tea; one of the handle-less stone ones they’d brought from Japan. Their little household ran on tea, especially since their stovetop espresso maker had broken, now a sad display on the windowsill.

‘Amazing, thank you.’

Victor took his tea, and looked over at Makkachin, who, like every morning, was nose-deep in his breakfast, wagging his tail. Unable to resist greeting his best friend, Victor leaned forward to pet him. The movement sent a short wave of pain down his left leg, just bad enough to make him draw breath. He moved back up and held his smile - just about - but when he looked back at Yuuri he saw the light change in his eyes.

‘Do you have pills in here or should I go get the ones in the bathroom?’ he said.

‘I’m fine,’ Victor said, still beaming. ‘I’ll take them in a minute. Stay here with me?’

Yuuri sighed inaudibly; out of love or sadness, Victor could not tell. He shuffled closer, and Victor wrapped both arms around him, resting his head on his shoulder. He thought of the stretch this was giving his neck. _I could create a yoga programme. Starting with the Yuuri Salutation._

It had been thirteen months since he’d returned to competitive skating, and eight months since he’d dropped out again, not to pursue the love of his life but to deal with two herniated discs in his lower back. It was a common injury in and out of sport; when the news first broke, he had messages from a village-worth of people telling him their own war stories. The majority of patients improved significantly within a few months of physio and pain management, and his doctors and physiotherapist had naturally expected the same for him.

Yet despite his previous record of fitness, despite his dedication to treatment, despite the devoted attentions of his fiancé and dog, he was not much better. He was worse. The enduring physical pain was now matched with an emotional pressure that pinched, numbed and crushed his nerves at different turns. Emotional pressure was all he deigned to call it, because most of the time he was, he argued to himself, OK. He’d dropped out of competing, for now, but he never missed a day at the rink, even in the early days when it had taken an hour to get out of bed and he’d had to use a crutch. Once he got there, it was just another day of work. He guided Yuuri through his routines from the sidelines. He assisted the rest of the team. Yuuri’s routines improved, the arguments of the day dissipated in time for dinner, and when he breathed in the cool air of the rink, it all felt like enough.

It was only the empty hours, when the time to concentrate on work ran out, that every tiny task became an exercise in resilience. The ruined stovetop espresso maker that loomed on the windowsill was there to remind him to concentrate while using hot objects; he’d got distracted while making coffee by a combination of his smartphone and the brain fog caused by his painkillers and the emotional pressure, and it had caught fire. He had had it since Worlds 2012; he’d bought it in a general store in a Nice backstreet while hiding from Yakov. But as he’d stared at the smouldering disaster, he’d realised he just couldn’t care about it. It would be like mourning a brick in a collapsing house. He just started drinking more tea.

Still, this morning the world was bright and kind again, as today he was working on one of the only things that still inspired him at every time of day: their wedding.

‘Are you getting your tie and everything today or just your suit?’ Yuuri asked.

‘I’ll get measured for the tie, but I’ll order it separately. It needs to be the right shade of magenta. You are happy with the colour scheme, aren’t you?’

‘Vitya,’ Yuuri stared down at his tea, a soft blush appearing under his eyes. ‘I’ve said before, I never thought I’d get married at all, let alone to you. All I want from the day is to be married at the end of it. If we can give our guests a good time and have a glass of champagne, that’s a bonus. Everything else I leave to you.’

‘Oh, we’ll order a lot of champagne. We need three bottles just for you.’

‘Yeah, actually, another thing I want from the wedding is to be able to remember it.’

‘Yuuri! I thought we were going to duet on the pole! I will have to tell Chris that I don’t want lessons after all. He’ll be so disappointed.’

It was a joke too far. Yuuri turned abruptly to face him. Victor froze, pulling his face into another smile like he was in front of a TV camera, rather than the gaze of his fiancé. Out of the two, he knew which one was the most penetrating.

There was a pause.

‘I said I wouldn't _get drunk_ , not that I wouldn’t pole dance.’ There was Eros in Yuuri’s voice, even with his scarf almost up to his mouth. ‘I’ll actually be better when I’m sober.’

Victor’s heart hammered against the fluffy collar of his dressing gown. ‘Impossible, surely.’

‘Nope. Especially when you’re with me.’ Yuuri leaned up slightly to kiss his lips, holding them for just a few long seconds, and in that kiss he told Victor he wasn’t saying ‘when’ just to be nice.

‘Yuuri,’ Victor said helplessly, hoping it would somehow say everything at once.

_You’re a beautiful person. I love you. Thank you. I’m sorry._

‘So don’t let me down today,’ Yuuri said into Victor’s neck. ‘Choose something that’ll surprise me.’

-

He met Georgi and Yuri at a metro station on Nevsky Prospekt. They would both be groomsmen at the wedding, along with Chris, who would be by his phone in Geneva waiting for pics.

‘Gosha told me you went all the way to Milan to buy suits for the Olympics,’ Yuri said.

‘Sure, we did,’ Georgi said awkwardly. ‘But this is a wedding! We want to send Vitya to the next stage of his life with Russia’s love and craftmanship around him.’

‘I’ve never been to Italy,’ Yuri complained. ‘I was excited. You failed me yet again, Victor.’

When you are injured, Victor had learned recently, there are many ways people will try to help. They might give you gifts, they might lend a hand around the house, or they might let you know they don’t think any less of you for it, because in their opinion, you were already at rock bottom.

‘We’ll bring Italy to you. We’ll get you a little Vespa. Imagine you,’ Victor demonstrated along the road with his hand. ‘Scooting along after Otabek. I’m sure he’d slow down for you.’

‘Shut up! At least I don’t drive a stupid pink car.’

‘I won’t tell Dolly you said that.’

Rush hour was long past, and they walked at a leisurely pace. Shoppers paced, heads down, trying to protect themselves from the rain, while groups of tourists stood at random points, angling their cameras at some composition only they could see. Victor heard a tour guide say ‘Nevsky Prospekt has been the setting of many great…’ before she was drowned out by pop music pulsing from a shop door. When he looked up and around, he saw the tall pastel-coloured buildings highlighted against the grey sky, and the glows of the signs and storefronts beneath, gentle and inviting as campfires in the dark.

On a quiet day in Hasetsu, you could hear the sea even from the onsen. There was never a chance of that on Nevsky Prospekt, but still walking down it gave Victor a feeling of total ease and safety he could only describe as ‘home’.

Georgi was right. Buying his wedding suit in Russia was the right thing to do. The Russian people had never stopped looking out for him, even at his lowest points, and they never would. He would be somewhere worse than nowhere without them.

He had made the appointment for his fitting weeks ago, at a tailors he had first attended at the tender age of fifteen, when he’d started to lead his own interviews and needed a mature look. They had also fitted the first suit he wore as a coach. Their tastes were in sync with his, and he couldn't ask for more than that.

The entrance was as free to go through as any shop in St Petersburg; the exclusivity was conveyed by the decor. Gilt-edged mirrors and shining chandeliers set off the dark wood of the cabinets and floor-to-ceiling shelves displaying what seemed like an infinite variety of shirts and jackets. Victor knew, of course, that this was not the limit at all; they had several thousand woollens from across the globe to choose from, and he already had a shortlist.

A young man in a slim waistcoat and trousers and the ubiquitous tape measure around his neck approached them.

‘Mr Nikiforov, we are ready for you.’

They exchanged nods, and the tailor took their coats and umbrellas, and with them all impression of the outside world. They were led to a back fitting room with a deep Chesterfield sofa and a newly-lit fire. Yet more golden mirrors were spaced around the room to showcase the fittings from every angle.

‘Will you have something to drink?’

‘Yes, some tea for myself and my friends, please.’

‘How long are we going to be here?’ Yuri asked, sitting on the edge of the sofa. His hands subconsciously tugged at his old polyester hoodie, bought two years and several inches of growth earlier.

‘We’ve booked two hours,’ Georgi said.

‘Two _hours_?’

Victor removed his own jacket and moved over to one of the mirrors to check his hair and powder his face while the tailor disappeared to call a colleague and get samples of fabric. ‘I can just ask for an extension if I need one. They always have flexibility.’

He narrated the specs of his ideal suit to himself like they were his free skate programme. Three piece, one-breasted, two-button, peak lapels, slim fit. Pure mid-weight, Italian wool in a very dark grey, faint pinstripes with a hint of silver: the colour would compliment the flowers, and the tie.

‘I just can’t make up my mind on the jacket lining,’ he said aloud.

He suddenly noticed the tailors watching him in the mirror.

‘If you don’t object to a patterned lining, perhaps something with the magenta in the background.’

‘And what in the foreground?’

‘The blue.’

Victor felt himself smiling so widely it pushed up his cheeks. ‘Let’s try that first.’

There was nothing that boosted your self-esteem like having a bespoke suit fitted, except perhaps winning a medal. The first hour was everything he hoped it would be; with each measurement he felt himself move closer to his exquisite image of himself as a groom.

 _I told them we need breathability. I want to look as good on the dancefloor at 3am as I did when I arrived_ , he texted Chris.

 _Did you tell them you may need to be able to climb a ninja tower in it?_ Chris replied.

_With 30 measurements, I hope I can do anything in this._

30 measurements. 30 steps to perfection. This Victor told himself first with cheer, then with determination. As the clock moved into the second hour, he found that not even his demands, his fantasies, and his increasingly ridiculous texts with Chris, were a sufficient distraction from the steadily increasing nerve pain in his legs. He stared fixedly ahead, pretending the pain would only happen when he looked at it, but his knees shook against the soft fabric of his trousers.

He had a routine of managing this that Georgi and Yuri knew from the rink, and he felt them watch him closely. He took periodic reprieves, resting his foot on a stool, sitting on the edge of the sofa, sipping tea and returning to the fitting with renewed willpower. But with each passing second he felt a thousand tiny ice picks being twisted inside the core of his back and thighs, until his brain could summon no more words but -

‘Pain,’ he murmured. ‘Sorry. My…injury. I need a break.’

He had a large piece of fabric pinned to his waist which fell down as he staggered to the sofa. Georgi, concerned, dashed over to him and held his arm.

‘He needs at least 15 minutes. Maybe 20. Can we extend our time?’

‘Gosha, I’m fine.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Vitya.’

The tailors paused and exchanged a glance before one of them said, in a tone that was cold even for Russian customer service.

‘We can’t extend your time. We have another booking.’

Georgi was one who hated playing the ‘Do you know how rich I am?’ game, but he glanced back at Victor and said, ‘OK. How much is another hour?’

Their expressions did not change. ‘We have another booking, sir.’

Victor grabbed the arm of the sofa to get up again, but when he put weight on his feet he found that they were going numb. He pictured himself stumbling on the plush carpet the moment he tried to get up, and suddenly he was profoundly afraid. He clamped his jaw shut, tensed his face.

‘You could work around it. What do you do when you have fittings with customers in wheelchairs?’ Georgi asked.

The tailors were silent; it was probably the least offensive way to say that they did not have customers in wheelchairs.

‘I’ve been coming here since I was fifteen. This is for my wedding. I’m - I…’ Victor tried to think of a way to sum up everything behind him - his medals, his modelling career, his sponsorship deals, his personal fortune, his ambassadorship for Russia. ‘I’m…Victor Nikiforov.’

‘We have another booking, Mr Nikiforov. You will need to move on.’

It was as he'd feared. The Russian people had not failed to notice that his comeback had not succeeded. They had wanted their own Roger Federer - someone who defeated opponents from across the world over and over again, someone who defied the obstacles of age and change. Someone much more than an athlete: a miracle of human performance, who would be remembered hundreds of years from now. Instead, they just got a disappointment. He’d been discarded like a broken toy.

Victor Nikiforov was dead.

A silence that was almost more difficult to endure than the pain in his legs went by, until the voice of Yuri Plisetsky blasted through it.

‘This is bullshit! You think you can speak to customers like this, you fucking, glorified shop assistants?’

‘Sir. We do not tolerate aggressive behaviour on our premises under any circumstances.’

‘Fuck you! People have problems! He’s a national hero!’

Victor’s senses were distracted, but he could still feel the energy in the room racing into Yuri, like clouds pulled into a tornado.

‘This is getting out of hand,’ Georgi said, racing to grab Yuri’s arm. ‘Let’s all just calm down. Yu -’

Yuri aimed an kick at the clothing rail, and it tipped straight over.

‘- ra…’

-

‘Fucking bullshit,’ Yuri continued after they were expelled from the shop. The violence of his tone contrasted with the gentle way he held Victor's arm. ‘I’m gonna complain to the managers. I’m telling TripAdvisor, and Google, and Yelp and all the…’

‘Do not put anything about this online,’ Victor interjected, glaring across at him.

Yuri was quiet for a moment, then asked in a calmer tone, ‘Can I tell Lilia?’

‘Do it,’ Victor and Georgi said simultaneously. Lilia never let her students down in their times of need. Her anger was swift and majestic. By the end of the day, Victor would not be the only important customer the tailors lost.

The usual routine when they approached cafés was to assess the vibe of the place to see if it was likely they’d be spotted by fans, but Victor was in so much pain he couldn't go much further, so they went straight into the first one they came across. Right away they found a perfect corner table with three straight wooden chairs that were neither too high nor too low, and Victor eased himself into one. Georgi ordered for the three of them, and Yuri pulled out his phone, no doubt to text Lilia.

Victor took out his own phone. He felt drained, and his subconscious pulled him towards a healing shot of social media attention. If somebody had asked, he might have said that what he really craved was conversation; just to have a response to what he was feeling, any response. To know that he was still worthy of someone’s concentrated attention.

He opened his notes, an idea for an post ready. His hand hovered over the keyboard, and the invisible words typed themselves across his brain. _Athletes don't talk about life with injuries as much as we should, even amongst ourselves. There is so much about this life I didn't know until now. I miss walking around my city without thinking how much I can take before I’ll need to rest. I miss choosing cafés I want to go in and not just the nearest ones. I miss being able to wander and get lost._

He looked up to see Georgi and Yuri watching him over their samovar. It was a well-used one, shining midnight blue decorated with golden flowers. Next to it was a little plate of handmade pryaniki cakes, glazed all over with white icing. He exhaled, and smiled.

‘This is perfect. But what about your diet plans?’

_I miss cycling. I miss dancing. I miss rough sex. I miss not caring what the time was because I didn't have to or want to take pills. I miss having space to think about things other than sadness and pain._

Georgi shrugged. ‘I liked the look of them.’

‘They look like my grandpa’s,’ Yuri said, approvingly.

_I’ll be 30 this year, but I feel very young. Because I used to know what I wanted to do with all the years in front of me, and now they’re out of my control._

He took a quick pic of the samovar and cakes, and put his original post idea aside.

_Sorry I have been quiet lately. Busy life! Enjoying the most Russian afternoon ever with @goshapopovich and @yuri_plisetsky._

As the pain in his legs finally eased, Victor’s attention to his surroundings improved and he noticed that the café was unusually quiet. Conversations were subdued, and most patrons were not talking at all. They were reading. As he looked around, he noticed there were bookshelves in every corner, including one within arm’s reach of his own seat. There was something comforting about their presence; they seemed to say that everyone needs a place to escape. While they munched through cakes in silence, he scanned the titles for one to look at.

 _Zuliekha Opens Her Eyes_. Nah. _Me Before You_. BIG no. _Anna Karenina_ … he did have to read that some day.

Tolstoy was actually part of one of the few childhood memories he had that were not on a rink. His grandparents had been swept up in the Soviet government’s drive for universal cultural education, and had read pretty much everything Tolstoy had ever written, multiple times. The day he remembered must have been one of the last times he saw them, before he started boarding school. He would have been about six years old. It had been a hot summer day, but his grandparents lived in an apartment block with nowhere to play outside, and their living room was small, dark and dusty. He had been sitting alone in the middle of the room, eating through small handfuls of his grandmother’s sweet and fluffy homemade zefir, half-asleep with boredom at the grown-up conversation he couldn't understand, only to be awakened by his grandfather showing him the biggest book he had ever seen.

‘Have you read this yet, Vityasha?’

A little intimidated, he’d said ‘Yes’.

Dedushka had handed it to him. ‘Well, it’s better the second time. You take this, and tell me what you think of it.’

It was still there on his shelves, amongst others he’d acquired over the years. There had been so much to take on in his life that all he’d been able to give these special things for years now was an occasional glance and a passing thought of ‘someday, when I have time’.

Well, he had a lot of time now. He glanced across to Yuri and Georgi.

‘Do you guys mind if I…’

‘Not at all,’ Georgi said.

‘God,’ Yuri said, gesturing to the book. ‘We’ll be here forever.’

Victor opened the book, a simple but neat paperback with a printed Impressionist painting on the cover, taking care not to bend it too much in his hands.

_All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way._

He gave the famous opening line its due consideration. _It’s true. The Nikiforovs, for example. It must be unique to find out about your only son’s engagement from the news, rather than - now what’s that thing Yuuri’s family do - conversation?_

He made a note about the line on his phone. He was off to a strong start.

Within half an hour, he’d let his exquisite tea go cold. That evening, he snuck a few pages in during the ad breaks of a romcom they were watching. That night, Yuuri, for once, was the one to ask for lights out.

About ten days later, Victor was sitting at the kitchen table cutting vegetables, and calling out various conversation starters to Yuuri.

‘It’s Mila’s birthday next Tuesday! What should we get her?’

‘I was thinking about Otō-san’s barbecues today. We should go back this summer.’

‘Do I add ten spoons of cayenne or eleven?’

When Yuuri did not reply, Victor put his head around the door and stared at his fiancé, who, he discovered, was looking over his notebook. He had a black leather-bound notebook that he’d bought on a trip to England, in which he wrote only his most worthy ideas. Yuuri had free permission to read it, as he needed the Russian practice, and most of its content was about him anyway.

‘Yuuri.’

‘Sorry! I was just trying to read your new ideas. You’ve been writing something about the Anna Karenina characters?’

Victor felt a sudden urge to cover the notes with his hands. ‘Yes. My family always used to discuss books, and…I just felt I had to write something down, even if they’ll never read it.’

Yuuri continued to read, translating it aloud. Victor jumped in to assist him where he could, though doing so made him feel giddy with embarrassment.

\- _Oblonskys story starts theme of men/women relationships. Double standards for men, but divorce still a stigma whether husband or wife is adulterer. Shows impact of adultery on whole family as well as couple._  
_\- Anna is introduced from man’s POV - shows she always has to live to men’s expectations?_  
_\- V has a different moral perception of himself to Levin and Anna, so the affair is never going to hurt him like it hurts Anna._  
_\- He’s never afraid of losing himself like Levin is._  
_\- Froufrou represents Anna. Vronsky’s mistake kills the horse. V never pays for the horse!!!_  
_\- To Google: Psychological realism_

‘You know,’ Yuuri said, ‘most people don’t do this with books, they just read them.’

‘This is reading! Reading isn't just taking in the words. The best books make you think for much longer than when you’re just reading them. I mean, I still think about some of the books I read when I was, like, ten.’

Yuuri smiled. There was a sudden homely feeling between them.

‘Tell me more about Anna Karenina.’

That night, over stew and some full-bodied red wine, Victor told Yuuri, in no particular order, every impression he’d had of the book. You had to read every word of the farm parts, because if you did, you’d feel some of the light of Levin’s spiritual epiphany inside yourself, just like a sunrise. But what was Tolstoy’s actual vision of a happy life, that was the question! Anna was surely far too sympathetic to be a cautionary tale against destroying the family structure, she deserved all the love that anyone had for her.

‘And I think the train is a symbol of…’

‘You should post this,’ Yuuri interrupted. It was the first time he’d said something other than ‘Uh huh’ for a while.

‘What, on my Instagram? It would be a little much.’

‘No,’ Yuuri leaned back in his chair, his face flushed from wine. ‘You could start a blog. Are you going to read more books after this?’

‘Of course.’

‘That could be the content. Victor Nikiforov’s Book Blog. Book Club. Like Emma Watson.’

‘Yuuri.’ Victor fixed him with a look, the “You’re making me say things I don’t like saying” look. ‘I’m not Emma Watson. I left school when I was fifteen.’

‘To win the freaking Olympics!’ Yuuri pressed his hands to his chest. ‘You’re Victor Nikiforov! People would read your thoughts on anything!’

Victor thought of the incident at the tailors. 'I don’t know about that.’

‘They would! I’ll help you! It’d be a project.’

Yuuri was the only person who knew the full extent of how hard things had been for Victor, and the person most determined to see him through it. They had also been together long enough that Yuuri knew all he had to say was ‘project’, and a fire would be lit in Victor’s soul.

‘OK. Let’s do it.’

They spent the rest of the evening putting together the key parts. It would be on WordPress, in English so that Yuuri and their friends could read it. Anna Karenina would be the first book and they’d ask the commenters, if there were any, for the next. They’d advertise it once, briefly, on Twitter and Instagram, and no more. Over the week Victor put his thoughts in a coherent written order and checked them against the text, drawing out the key quotes he needed. He looked up psychological realism at the library (as while he didn’t expect to win a championship of literary analysis at this point, he had to refine his techniques) and recorded the references he found. He then gave the finished article to Yuuri, whose written English was better than his, to proofread while he set up the theme and look of the blog. He resisted setting a deadline, as this was not a sport and didn't need them - but only just.

It was during a break at the rink, while everyone was eating and checking their phones that Yuuri announced, ‘It’s ready.’

Victor looked around at his rinkmates, as if their reaction in this moment determined the fate of his career.

‘You’re sure it has no mistakes?’

‘Nothing obvious. I don’t want to change it too much, it’s your words.’

Victor posted it that evening, just before bed, and put all his devices under Makkachin’s bed so he wouldn’t be tempted to check them. His heart, made of glass as it was, felt like it was burning from the inside, like a lightbulb. Uncertainty and self-doubt never got to him like this in skating. If there was a point in a routine Yuuri struggled with, he thought of ways to handle it. If trolls filled up his Twitter mentions calling him weak and probably doping, he forgot them faster than flies brushing past his face. With the book blog, though, there was no scoring system, no competition, no perfect clean vision to aspire to. He could picture the worst - literary communities across the world coming together to mock and deride him as someone who should stick to dancing for pieces of metal - but he could not picture the best.

He fell asleep at two o’clock in the morning on the thought that he’d spent all his life wanting the best, but maybe that was one more thing that had to change.

Twenty-four hours later, he had four hundred followers, and fifty different comments.

_Beauty AND brains!_

_OMG I’m quoting Victor Nikiforov for my homework I’m crying_

_What do you really think of Yuri Plisetsky?_

The comments that interested him most were about books, and his innate need for perfection made him reply to every single one, and with care. He wanted the atmosphere to be something opposite to what he’d felt in that dressing room.

The following Saturday when they came home after training, Victor settled in with his tablet and found he only had two replies to make. He stared at them, knowing that there was a lot of time in front of him, and that all that time could easily be dissolved into endless incoherent thoughts about his career collapsing, because it usually did.

‘Remember when _you_ had to drag _me_ off the couch on Saturday nights?’ Yuuri said. He was on the sofa too; they’d bought a corner one, to fit both them and Makkachin for cuddles and post-work slumps. Yuuri needed both of these like he needed warm-ups and a high-protein diet.

‘Do you want to go out? Because I’ll be fine,’ Victor glanced down at his knees. ‘We could go to that place you liked with the cheeseless pizza. I think Mila said she wasn’t doing anything, I could ask -’

‘Do you want to go out?’ Yuuri said tentatively.

Victor turned his head to his bookshelves. What had spent a long time more or less as furniture was now drawing his eyes and imagination almost as often as his wardrobe or smartphone.

‘Well…actually I want to start my next book. Is that…OK?’

Yuuri gave a groan of relief, and sank his face into a cushion. ‘Thank you.’

The blog didn’t have a theme, or even a purpose. Yuuri had been right about the audience; they seemed to respond to everything, more or less. Each post had some close line analysis, some thematic analysis, and some literary theory he had found through research, but the bulk of each one was general excitement about the best and worst parts of books.

 _There are two rules to the Victor Nikiforov Book Club:_  
_1\. Read all the book. You don’t get a gold medal in skating by cutting corners and you don’t get a gold medal in reading by doing that either._  
_2\. Read all the books. Anna Karenina is AMAZING. The latest Jack Reacher book is AMAZING. Paranormal werewolf romances on Amazon are AMAZING. Books are A M A Z I N G._

A third rule, which Victor kept to himself, was that it was a book blog, not a skating blog. He did not describe his work, and ignored all questions about it. With each book he read, and each post he designed, a little of the emotional pressure lifted, and he could think well and freely again. Though in writing, as in skating or coaching, one could never lose oneself entirely, and as he got to know his readers, he let more of himself come through.

_Sarah Waters, you punish me. As Phichit said that Yuuri said, when I read that plot twist I literally sat up in bed. I was so shocked that I lost my English, then my Russian, and I was just like ‘AAARGH’. Yuuri thought I was in terrible pain. I WAS._

_Eugene Onegin is another book I should have read at school, but I was very busy in those days. That hair did not get so shiny and beautiful by itself._

_As the title suggests, Everything I Never Told You is a novel about the pain we bury inside ourselves, and conceal from the people we love. I am continuously drawn to novels like this, especially now that I’m getting married._

_These are the worst Sherlock Holmes stories, because you can tell that he has lost his passion and he was writing to please the fans. And yet, when I read ‘The Final Problem’, which was meant to be the last story of course, it really feels like it was meant to be ambiguous. They don’t find the body, after all. I am wondering if he understood that the problem was only with himself, and at that point at least, he wanted to leave the fans with hope. I think anyone who has tried to do one thing for a longer time than they can stand can relate to that._

‘How much longer will you need to recover from your injury?’

‘No comment, thank you!’

‘I am not the press, Vitya!’

Yakov slammed one hand on the side of the rink, and thrust a copy of the morning’s paper at Victor with the other. It was crumpled with how tightly he had been gripping it.

_**Fresh doubt that Victor Nikiforov will return to the ice** _

The article was not as fresh as it claimed itself to be, at least to Victor’s eyes. He scanned the now familiar points: that he could be seen attending the rink in St Petersburg each morning to coach Yuuri, but had not travelled outside of his coaching capacity for months; that the FFKKR still had him on their selection list; that his fellow athletes wished him well. There was only one new note.

_For all this time we have put our faith in the belief that Victor Nikiforov loves the ice too much not to give his all to returning to competition rather than extending his absence. However, it seems the five-time world champion’s heart has been stolen again, not by Katsuki (or, more correctly, not only by Katsuki) but by literature and social media, and his physical progress is stalling. At 29, Nikiforov must know time is not on his side._

It was spring, and Worlds was looming. Experts and fans had predicted months back that the gold was Yuuri’s, and had not yet changed their minds. Yuri was also expected to do well. Yakov, a father to his men even if he had a unique way of showing it, had to ensure somebody still remembered this competition had once been Victor’s to take home.

‘When will you next see your consultant?’

‘After Worlds.’

‘When after Worlds?’

Victor sighed. He suddenly felt the cold through his light tracksuit. ‘I haven’t booked an appointment yet.’

‘Did she not say when it happened that if your recovery took longer than expected, you would discuss surgery?’ Of course, this was not really a question. Between them, Yuuri and Yakov had not only absorbed everything Victor told them his medical team had said, but corroborated it with every other doctor and therapist who would answer their phone calls.

‘She did.’

‘It’s been almost a year. You need to do whatever it takes to get yourself fit again.’

In the distance, Yuuri was going over his footwork for his short programme, head down, eyes fixed on the harmony of his toes, feet, ankles and legs. He didn’t need to look at them to move them to his will; he was just trying not to look like he was listening. Not long ago, the pressures of skating had been more than enough for him. Now, he’d spent a year taking on Victor’s problems as well. Victor thought once again of the pressure. _Like the point of a knife against your nerves_.

‘I need to do what’s right for Yuuri,’ Victor said, so quietly he could hardly hear himself.

‘Exactly,’ Yakov said.

The next time he picked up his phone, Victor found the number of his consultant’s surgery. He rehearsed the conversation in his mind, and poised his thumb over the dial button, when an email notification appeared across his screen.

_Reply to your comment on thread: ‘Anna’s Redemption’_

With the flash of shame that comes with feeding a habit, he tapped it.

-

Victor pressed kisses across Yuuri’s body with no sound between them but the Helsinki sea outside their window. With each one, he felt him sink a little more into a state close to relaxation.

‘You’re going to conquer the world tomorrow. I’m so proud of you,’ he whispered. The only light they had left on was the one in reach of the bed, which cast a soft amber light across Yuuri’s face, brushing across the faint lines of worry on it.

‘I’m proud of you, too,’ Yuuri said. He had that same sparkle in his eyes as when he’d proposed. ‘I know it’s taken everything you have to do this for me, and I love you.’

‘You don’t need to thank me,’ Victor said, ‘I’m yours.’

Yuuri lifted his head slightly to indicate he wanted to move, and Victor sat back on the bed to let him. Within a blink, Yuuri was up, toned thighs thumping the mattress on either side of Victor’s hips. He put his arms around Victor with such tenderness that he melted into them instantly.

‘I do need to thank you,’ he said.

‘We need to preserve our strength for tomorrow,’ Victor said, but he was a goner to that look in his fiancé’s eyes, and told him so with another kiss to his lips. With everything that had happened in the past year, these precious moments had become rarer than they used to be.

Yuuri’s warm hands dipped under Victor’s shirt, smoothing over the muscles with just the right amount of pressure. They were moving as one, their bodies as connected as their hearts.

‘I need something to inspire me.’

‘What if it’s too much?’

Yuuri smiled, and held Victor’s gaze for just a second longer before leaning in to guide him to the bed. ‘Impossible.’

—

Victor awoke to broad daylight, and he gave it a sleepy smile of love and gratitude as it shone through a gap in the blue-grey curtains. On cue, the beside phone rang for their wake-up call. Yuuri groaned loudly .

‘Good morning, World Champion,’ Victor said affectionately, and reached out his arm to get the phone. A nerve in his lower back sparked ominously. He lowered his arm and closed his eyes. _Not today_ , he pleaded with his discs, _not today_.

‘Sorry, Yuuri, could you-’

‘I’ll get it,’ he said, and sprung up to run around and take the phone call. ‘ _Kiitos_ , we’re up now.’ He turned to his fiancé. ‘Are you doing the routine?’

Victor pulled a wide grimace and moved his eyes in the direction of his feet, which he moved back and forth to begin warming up his lower back. ‘I am. You go shower.’

He promised himself he’d be up by the time Yuuri was out, but when he tried to lift his knees, it felt like a dagger flying down his deepest nerves. His trusty, long-suffering thigh muscles responded with with a tolerable ache that would turn into a deep burn if he was not more patient with them. He could feel himself starting to sweat against the cotton sheets rumpled from the night before. Minutes passed on the clock.

‘Vitya! Can you bring me the leave-in conditioner from my bag?’ Yuuri called, and for some reason it was this that brought a lump to Victor’s throat. He coughed back a sob, and kept going.

Yuuri could not have heard this over the running water, but he heard the silence and raced out of the shower, still dripping from every part of his body, wide eyes darting anxiously around the room. The white and blue walls that had seemed so bright and nautical on arrival now seemed to emphasise the fact that the ice was waiting for him.

‘This is all my fault! I don’t know what came over me last night, I shouldn’t have-’

‘It was worth it, Yuuri!’ Victor interrupted. ‘It’s my fault. I should have known I couldn't sleep in until the last minute. I’m not sixteen any more.’

Yuuri took a shaky breath in and out. His voice was loud and wild. ‘I’m not going without you!’

Victor couldn’t bring himself to argue either way. ‘I’ll be fine. Please, just get ready, and I’ll focus on this.’

After a few more minutes of mutual pain, in which Yuuri attempted to dry his hair and dress without taking his eyes off him, Victor did get out of bed. They sat together on the bed for a moment clasping hands, their pulses beating wildly against each other.

The conversation ran dry after this. In the taxi on the way to the rink, Yuuri stared at Helsinki through the window, and Victor fought the urge to open his Kindle app. The blog commenters had urged him to start the Earthsea series, and it was a world so unlike his own he’d been sucked in from the first page. But as he was about to take out his phone, Yuuri’s hand found his knee.

‘How are you feeling?’ Victor asked him.

‘How do you think?’

Yuuri’s expression was terribly still. It was morning, but he looked like he’d lived through enough for months. The love Victor felt for him in these moments was more consuming than any pain.

‘If you’re worried about the mid-part of your jump combination, I think you should still stick with the Triple Loop. You seem to finish more strongly when you go from there.’

Yuuri’s hand squeezed the tissue box he was holding, and his thumb worked the dog’s plush fur so hard he seemed likely to wear it down. ‘I want you to promise me something.’

Victor glanced at their rings. ‘Anything. What is it?’

‘I thought 2015 was a different time,’ Yuuri said, ‘but this morning I felt it all over again. That…feeling that I was talking to you through water, that the future was slipping from our hands. There are some things…that can’t be discussed through skating, or dance, or sex. Or literature. I want you to promise me that when we get back, we’re not just going to go on filling each day with skating and books and physio that isn’t _working_ , waiting for life to make our decisions for us. There will be something out there that can help you, I don’t know if it’s surgery or not but whatever it is, we’re doing it.’

‘We?’ Victor said.

‘Yes, we. My career is not just about me, and yours is not just about you.’ Yuuri also snatched a look at their rings, and that self-conscious blush appeared again under his eyes.

‘You know, don’t you?’ Victor said, in Japanese in case the taxi driver understood English or Russian and had a contact in the media. ‘Can you forgive me?’

Yuuri’s hand smoothed over Victor’s thigh. He responded in the same language, his voice assured. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. You’re much more than an athlete.’

-

_I’m sorry it has been a while since I posted. I had a lot to read and not much time! But before we get to the Earthsea series, including five ways Roke was not like my boarding school and one way it was, I have two important things to share with you._

_Firstly, Yuuri Katsuki, my student, my fiancé, my hero, and editor of this blog, is now a gold medal World Champion. His beautiful free skate programme, La Vie en Rose, will be a precious treasure in the memories of spectators, judges and fellow competitors forever. A moment of respectful awe at his magnificence, please. (CUT THIS - Yuuri)_

_(Picture: Yuuri Katsuki, smiling as bright as the stars, waving to the spectators at Helsinki)_

_I won’t spend much time on this second point, as it has been and will be extremely documented by our friends the media, and it is rather boring. For the past year, I have been dealing with a very persistent back injury. This time next week, I will be having surgery to relieve the pressure it is putting on my nerves, and hopefully with that a lot of the pain. The procedure has a high success rate, a low risk of complications, and a short recovery time, at least I think so._

_When I think of the future now, I feel many things, and for the first time in a while, all of them are good. A lot of my thanks for that go to Yuuri, and trust me, I am telling him every day. But also a lot go to you, readers, as it is you, as well as the contents of each book that I pick up, that let me know that even though I am leaving competing behind, the time in front of me is still full of hope and discovery._

The news of Victor’s retirement did not break on Twitter until fifteen full minutes after the post.

‘Maybe a lot of journalists are Ursula Le Guin fans,’ Yuuri said.

-

Victor awoke to two surprises. The first was that when he stretched his legs, he felt not even a twinge of pain.

‘Yuuri,’ he said aloud, though his eyelids were heavy and trying to drag him back under. ‘ _Yuuri_.’

Yuuri was right by his side. ‘Did it work?’ he asked in gentle Russian, to avoid challenging Victor’s anaesthetic-doped brain.

‘ _Da_.’

‘They told us you would feel it right away,’ he said in the same tone, though he was barely hiding his relief and excitement. He smoothed his hand over Victor’s hair. ‘Go back to sleep if you want to. We can dance around later.’

Victor closed his eyes, smiling to himself, but opened them a second later to the loud voices of his other visitors.

‘Mila, put down your phone and get another box!’

‘I just did one! It’s not an emergency!’

‘Box?’ Victor asked.

‘You have a lot of presents,’ Yuuri said. ‘And they’re much heavier than flowers.’

‘What?’

‘Books, Vitya. There must be a hundred of them. I hope you’re not planning on giving up the blog.’

Victor rubbed his eyes awake, lifting his head slightly to stare at the books surrounding his bed. There were slim, brightly-coloured graphic novels, plain leather-bound hardbacks that looked like heirlooms, brand-new paperbacks with beautiful cover art, and even a sci-fi novel that looked like it came from the Cold War era.

He had heard many retirement stories during his career, and he’d thought his own would be one of the most depressing. Instead, it felt like the one of the best days of his life.

‘Amazing,’ he said, and began to try to push himself up on his arms. ‘Amazing.’

Yuuri jumped up and placed his hands on Victor’s shoulders, encouraging him to lie down again. ‘Hey, hey, take it easy, you just had surgery!’ But he laughed. ‘I got you a present, too. Though I can’t give it to you yet.’

If he wanted Victor to relax, he’d said the wrong thing entirely. ‘Oh, Yuuri, thank you! Tell me about it, who is it by?’

Yuuri sighed. ‘It’s not a book. It’s…something for us both.’

A stadium’s worth of lights went on in Victor’s mind. ‘Yuuri?’

Yuuri waited until everyone was out of the room, then mumbled.

‘Two bottles of champagne. And a collapsible pole.’


End file.
